Resident Evil: The Hat That Knows Where It's At
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Say what you will about Mr. X, he at least had excellent taste in headwear.


**The Hat That Knows Where It's At**

"Shit!"

It wasn't the first time this night (or was it morning? It was hard to tell right now) that Claire Redfield had uttered a profanity, and it wouldn't be the last. It wouldn't even be the last, provided she survived to see the sun rise, because if nothing else, she'd have words for Chief Irons once she found his fat arse. Swearing, according to some of the people she'd met at uni, was cathartic, a way of humans to quickly express their anger rather than letting it out through jumping up and down like an ape. Over the last few hours, she'd whispered swears when she saw the living dead stumble towards her. She'd uttered prayers as she'd tiptoed past the clawed monsters that crawled along the walls and ceilings. That wasn't even mentioning Chief Irons, or the monster she'd encountered after finding Sherry. That overgrown zombie, or whatever the hell it was. But all of that, in some sense, she understood. Something had changed the people here. Irons was a bastard being a bastard. But this thing, before her…She could barely wrap her head around it.

A giant, standing eight feet tall. It was wearing a trench coat, and wearing a fedora. It might have been amusing if not for how fast it could walk (well, fast compared to the zombies that filled the RPD at least). If not for how she'd seen it rip doors off their hinges and splatter zombie skulls in an attempt to get her. Was this some kind of super zombie? Had someone with a weird taste in clothes get infected with whatever had sent Raccoon City to Hell? It didn't explain why it was so focused on her, and why it had apparently retained some level of intelligence, but…well, what else could explain it?

All of this passed through her mind in less than a second. Mr. X, as she called him, had slammed the door of the waiting room open. Somehow, she had to get Chief Irons's parking card, and that was hard enough without tall, dark, and ugly following her around. She'd finally scrounged enough circuits to fix the bastard's lock, but nope, Mr. X was still following her. The thing that she'd shot at when she'd first encountered it, and quickly learnt that the Quickdraw Army she carried with her had the effectiveness of throwing stones.

_Seriously?!_

It Frankenstein wanabee actually stood there there for a bit. As if wondering she wasn't turning tail. As if amused that the little girl in front of him wasn't running for her life yet, like she had every other time. Whatever the case, Claire counted her blessings, or rather, blessing. Mr. X had given her a second to breathe. And that was all the time she needed to say "enough."

Not that she literally said "enough." Unslinging the grenade launcher from her back (because the RPD apparently used grenade launchers – who knew?), what she actually said was "fuck off!"

Mr. X didn't react to such profanity. When she fired the grenade, it didn't react to that too much either. It staggered back, its hat falling off its grey, withered head, while its trench coat was scorched.

"Just die!"

Claire fired. Mr. X staggered back.

"Seriously!"

She fired again. And again. And again. The rounds weren't military grade – most of them were ones she'd handcrafted herself. She was hardly a weapons specialist, but having a brother in the Air Force (and later S.T.A.R.S.) had some perks, one of them being knowing a thing or two about gunpowder, guns, and how to use both. So putting that knowledge to good use, Claire kept firing. Again. And again. And again. Never enough to down the creature. But enough to cause it to stagger back each time. Out of the waiting room, and onto the second floor balcony.

_I'm ending this._

Part of her mind warned her that this was excessive. She might need the rounds later on. But that part was subsumed by instinct. Instinct had kept her alive so far. Instinct was what she followed. So, with instinct guiding the finger at the trigger, she fired the final round. Mr. X stumbled back against the balcony railing, breaking it.

The ground broke its fall.

Claire stood there for a moment. Still staring down the sights of the grenade launcher. Still breathing heavily. It wasn't that warm in the building, but her neck and hair were drenched with sweat. Her clothes drenched in dust and dry blood – none of it was hers, but sometimes, the walking dead had got too close for company. Just like Mr. X. Only while those fuckers had the decency to go down with a bullet to the brain, Mr. X had just kept coming. Like…like the Terminator, or something. Which she supposed made her Sarah Connor.

_You're terminated fucker._

She couldn't help but smirk at that – another thing about having a brother like Chris meant that you got raised on a plethora of action movies. Slinging the grenade launcher over her shoulder, she walked out towards the balcony, picking up the fedora as she did so. She wasn't sure why, it was just more of that instinct guiding her. That which guided her to the broken railing, and to the limp body of Mr. X on the ground.

_Is it over?_

She hoped so. He wasn't moving. Some of the zombies downstairs were. Some of them had even noticed her, and were letting out growls and hisses. But she wasn't worried – it would take them ages to stumble up here, and she knew how to get past them without much issue. All she had to do now was get Irons's key card, go back to the parking lot, find Sherry, deal with Irons, find Sherry's mum, find Leon, get out of Raccoon City, find Chris, and-

_One thing at a time Claire._

She took a breath and looked at the hat. Whoever Mr. X was, he'd apparently had interesting taste in headwear. She had to admit, it wasn't too bad – the material was nice to touch. She even put the hat over her head and found it fitted quite well.

_Never a mirror when you need one though._

She took it off, but didn't let it go. It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Lingering here was stupid. But Christ, it had been a long night. A minute's breather was maybe warranted. Especially when-

_No._

It couldn't be. Not now.

_Please no._

Down below. Mr. X.

_Seriously?!_

He was getting to his feet.

"Oh come on!" Claire exclaimed.

He actually looked up at her when she said that. That same blank stare. That impassive desire to murder her. The same thump-thump-thump as it began to head towards the stairs that led up to the balcony.

"You…" Claire took a breath – he was looking at her over his shoulder as he headed up. She waved the hat at him. "You're not getting this back, okay?! It's mine!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Do you hear me?!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Shit!"

That word again. That which she uttered as she holstered her pistol and ran back through the waiting room, keeping the hat tucked under her arm.

Maybe she was going to die this night. Maybe her throat would be torn out, or her body ripped apart, or her head crushed, or any other matter of mishap that the monsters roaming this city wanted to do to her. Maybe all of this was for nothing. Maybe, sometime soon, she'd die screaming.

But there was no way that bastard was getting his hat back before that happened.

* * *

_A/N_

_So, much as I love the RE2 remake, I have to ask, why's Mr. X wearing a fedora? Like, to blend in? Most of the people are dead now Umbrella, I think when you send a T-103 to kill any survivours, "fitting in" is the least of your concerns._

_Still, drabbled this up. I like to think that the hat Claire's wearing in her "noir" costume is the same as Mr. X's because I couldn't help but shoot it off the first time I saw him (as Leon admittedly) before going "yeah, time to run."_


End file.
